“It isn’t like we don’t have time.” Giovanni nudges his head to the closed sign hanging in the window. The opening hours are clear, and they scream in his face that I’m a big fat liar.
I still try to act nonchalant, though. “The staff always arrives early. We have to set up before the patrons arrive.”
His brow gets lost in his hair half a second before he snatches up my wrist and drags me back toward the SUV. “Second detour it is.”
Knowing I’ll never survive another hour being tormented intosubmission, I shout, “Fine! If you want to waste your morning priming kegs for consumption, who am I to stop you?”
After freeing my wrist from his hold and dodging the thirsty women desperate to take my place, I stab the keys I normally use to lock up into the lock, fling open the door, then gesture for Giovanni to enter first.
He scoffs, disgusted. He’d never leave me defenseless to the wolves, and the women surrounding us are out for blood.
The crowd sighs as if bestiality is attractive when I dart into the pub as per the request of Giovanni’s glare.
I set my bag behind the bar and spin to face him before giving him my best “boss” look. If he wants to babysit me like I’m a child and hide it under the guise of being helpful, I’ll put him to work.
His dark eyes follow my hand when I jerk it to the cellar door. “The kegs are in the refrigerator down there. You need to carry them up the stairs, carefully, of course, and connect a CO2 tank, regulator, gas line, and liquid line to a coupler. Then…” I wait, expecting some kind of backlash. When it never comes, I continue. “You need to connect it to a tap, which you will have to prime to ensure there are no leaks. Alcohol is expensive. We can’t waste a single drop.”
Not a hint of protest fetters Giovanni’s deliriously handsome face. He simply nods before heading in the direction I nudged. “How many kegs do you need me to bring up?”
I stagger back, a little thrown by his lack of objection. “Er… two, for now. A lager and a pale ale. The kegs have labels, so just match them up. If you get stuck, shout, and I’ll come help you.”
Already rolling up his sleeves, he grins and winks. “Got it, boss.”
I butt my hip with the bar and wait when he disappears down the cellar’s creaky steps, anticipating him to reappear at any moment. The cart for the kegs is in the owner’s office, and he’ll need that.
Instead of a crash or a curse, minutes later, Giovanni reappears, carrying a keg on each shoulder. He sets them down near the taps,wipes the condensation from his hands, then crouches under the bar to connect the lines.
All I do is stare. I’ve worked with five male bar staff over the past three months. Four complained that the purpose-built stair cart should be replaced with an internal keg lift that would deliver the kegs from the cellar to the bar with the push of a button. The other one whined the entire time that he wasn’t built for manual labor. He quit mid-shift.
Giovanni doesn’t cite a single gripe. He gets on with it like he’s worked here for years, and I’m tempted to check if he’s real.
How can you look like him, fuck like him, and understand hard work like he does?
I stop wondering when he pops up a handful of minutes later. As he dusts his hand, he strays his eyes to me. “All done. Do you want me to prime the lines, or do you want to check the connections first?”
I take a giant step back. “This is your baby, Vanni, so if you’ve made a mistake, you’ll be the only one wearing beer-soaked clothes today.”
He gleams, loving that I called him Vanni, before he grabs a glass from the rack, tilts it at the desired forty-five-degree angle, then pulls a beer like a pro. He even straightens the glass slowly as it fills so it gets the ideal foam head, and he doesn’t spill a drop when he sets it on the countertop next to me.
“Is that up to your standards, boss, or shall I try again?”
His molten lava voice makes me want to melt like a popsicle on a hot summer’s day, but I hold my ground—scarcely.
“Try again.” Hating that he mistakes my reply as being snarky, I quickly add, “It’s never fun drinking alone.”
By the end of my shift, I’m utterly spent. My feet are aching, but the buzz of our commute hasn’t dulled a smidge. That probably has more to do with how often I’ve caught Giovanni’s hooded gaze over the past eight hours than anything else.
He’s still here, working pro bono alongside me.
I wasn’t rostered for today, but the pub was the only place that popped into my head when I sought somewhere to think without reminders of Giovanni constantly entering my head. My boss was surprised to see me, but he protected my secret after he learned who had connected the kegs and stacked the shelves behind the bar.
He shook Giovanni’s hand, mumbled a brief introduction as if they hadn’t already met, then retreated to his office, leaving the brunt of the workload to Giovanni and me.
Giovanni didn’t mind. He chatted with the regulars and replaced the empty kegs before I could ask. He even charmed Mrs. O’Malley into leaving a bigger tip than usual.
I catch him staring as I wipe down the bar, his gaze lust-filled but attentive. “You good,dolcezza?”
I nod, though I have no idea why I bother. Giovanni seems to have a four-dimensional paradox directly to my soul. He barely arches a brow, and I cave.